Nightmares
by Miss Wonderfreak
Summary: Nightmares plague them both. Roy/riza royai


a.n. I would just like to say that I am beyond sick of the Roy-in-the-rain cliché. I mean, he's also useless at the beach! And probably in Florida, because it's so humid! So why does no one ever do Roy-is-useless-in-Florida?

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA.

Nightmares

Roy Mustang is plagued by nightmares. They haunt him, filling his sleep with unimaginable horror, slipping in the crevices beyond his closed eyes, submerging his nights in terror. They vary in intensity, length, and clarity, but they are always there. A quagmire of images ready to assault his foggy senses when he awakes to lie, heart pounding, eyes wide, drenched in sweat, on his back and stare determinedly at the ceiling in the early hours of the morning. They bite into his sanity, and each night, as he shakes off the previous demons, more come, drawn by the scent of his fear and the self-loathing in his soul. Bloody bodies, burning buildings, screaming people. They flood his slumbering mind.

Some people assume it's Maes. Partially it is. Sometimes he watches his best friend being lowered into the ground, still living. Sometimes he sees Maes showing him pictures of his own still body, slumped and bloody on the floor of a telephone booth. Sometimes he watches Maes die at the hands of an unknown attacker, sometimes Roy him kills himself. But those nightmares he can deal with.

Everyone else assumes its Ishbal. They assume he is reliving the endless horror, the taking of so many innocent lives. And usually it is. Usually they're right, he is tormented by the small Ishbalite girl, clutching a torn and bloody doll, crying by her mother's carcass. Usually he _does_ dream of snapping fingers and burning fire licking the arms of children. He is used to that. Those nightmares he can handle. Ishbal is in the past, and wallowing on it won't do anybody any good. He brushes those dreams off as best he can, even though he can never sleep the remainder of the night.

But it isn't only Ishbal. He could handle it if it was just Ishbal, but it isn't. Sometimes it's her. Sometimes he sees her, blonde hair matted with filth, mouth slightly open and filled with blood, lying eagle spread on the ground, a bullet in her still back. Sometimes he sees her being tortured, raped, her blood soaking the ground, and her golden eyes wide and beseeching. Or, sometimes, worst of all, he can't see her. He runs through demolished streets, examining corpses, and in the end is only able to recognize her from her dog tags. Because she is burnt beyond all recognition, face reduced to a charred skull, body mere black sticks, a victim of his own flames. Those nights, he gets up and sits at his kitchen table with a bottle of brandy for company. Her screams of the night he burnt her back ring in his ears. He can't live without her. He knows this.

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Riza Hawkeye is plagued by nightmares. They torture her slumbering form, twisting the sheets into chokeholds around her suffering body, becoming warped limbs in her unconscious mind. The nightmares caress her fevered brain, whispering dark things into her resting ears. She often wakes, her mouth open in a silent scream, and for a moment, before reality sinks in, the black in the corners of her bedroom are tiny claws stroking her cheeks, leaving burning acid trails. It doesn't matter if she goes to sleep with all the lights blazing, there is always darkness waiting somewhere to pounce.

If people knew, they might think it was Pride. They might think she is dreaming of his small hands clutched around her delicate neck, might guess that she is dreaming of his piercing black eyes ravaging her soul, might fathom that she is surrounded by nothing but his accursed shadows. And occasionally it's true. Occasionally she _is_ bodiless, mindless, falling through never-ending black that presses in on her soul. Once in a while, it _is_ Pride, waiting for her when she opens her apartment door with the bloody corpse of Hayate and one of her own guns aimed at her heart. But not always.

Most people think it is Ishbal. They think she is trapped in her sniper's tower, killing hundreds. Normally they are right. Normally she is a machine for killing, roaming the city in hunt for red-eyed humans. Sight, aim, shoot. It never ceases to amaze her, the power of a trigger. A tiny little lever that takes thousands of lives. Once in a while she is not only the shooter, but the one being shot. Sometimes she watches herself as she aims the gun at a young boy, watching through his eyes as a bullet hits between them. Or after a particularly bad day, she might dream that she is the bullet, burrowing into flesh with sadistic pleasure. But not every time.

Because sometimes it's Roy. Sometimes she finds his body, beaten and bruised, crumpled in a corner like a piece of trash. Sometimes she watches as he is stabbed through the gut again and again, her feet glued into place, only able to hear his desperate screams. The worst one is where he is missing. She goes through casualty report upon casualty report, roams hospital morgues, begs people in the street to tell her if they have seen a dark-haired alchemist that can summon fire. After searching uselessly, she goes home, and he is there. On her kitchen floor, in a pool of blood, shot through the heart. A message scrawled on the dirty linoleum. _Riza…_Those nights, she gets up and makes a cup of tea, and drinks it in bed, huddled close to Black Hayate, trying to block the hysteria threatening to overwhelm. She can't live without him. She knows this.

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Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye.

Both plagued by nightmares.

Of loss, of death, but most terrifyingly, of love.


End file.
